Here’s an another old story from when Elder was five years old and Younger was two…
Taking the boys to the doctor is never easy, especially when we are left to our own devices in the examining room for an hour. So, a few weeks ago, when the boys played relatively quietly for that hour, allowing me to guide their interests into the toys and books, I found myself impressed with my mothering skills.
However, I quickly lost all pride when we stepped into Wal-Mart.
As I remember it, we were standing in line at the pharmacy while Elder circled me and the cart, pausing occasionally to shove his face at Younger and give the waiting two year old a chance to smack him, both of them squealing in appreciation of the game. Finally, I grabbed Elder, hooked his arms around the end of the cart and told him if he moved even a little, he wasn’t playing Nintendo when we got home.
“Even a little?” he questioned aghast.
“Even a little,” I gritted through grinding teeth.
After a minute or so, Elder told me, “Mom, but I gotta breathe. I’ll just breathe a little. Like this.” He panted in example. “Okay.”
“Yeah, Elder,” I said wearily. “That’s fine. Want ya to breath.”
“All right then.” Another few moments passed in silence then Elder asked, “Mom, are you going to pick up some of those patience while we’re here?”
I wish I could find a box of patience on a grocery store shelf. Sometimes, I really, really wish I could.